Beginnings Again
by BlackEyedGirl
Summary: The beginning, the ending, and the beginning again of the dynamic duo of speechwriting. Spoilers for the whole show, but a change in canon in 7.19 which makes things go a little differently for Sam and Toby.


**Title:** Beginnings again  
**Pairing:** None (maybe Sam/Toby if you squint)  
**Rating:** PG  
**Genre:** Drama/Gen  
**Length:** Ficlet - 1,600 words  
**Disclaimer:** The West Wing is sadly not mine. Even more sadly, neither is Sam  
**Summary:** The beginning, the ending, and the beginning again of the dynamic duo of speechwriting.  
**AN**: Is canon through the entire run, but for one change in 7.19. So spoilers throughout obviously.

* * *

**Beginnings**

"Ginger!" Toby yelled. "I need a copy of the Bill of Rights, yesterday's polling figures, a better word for force, and a gallon of coffee."

"The Bill of Rights?"

"If no one in this _Presidential Campaign headquarters_ has a copy, I would, perhaps, settle for the text of the sixth amendment. And also a weapon of some kind."

"I can't help with the coffee or the numbers," a voice broke in, "but force could be power, strength, might or maybe vigor?"

Toby observed the invasion of his dark office in mystification. Standing haloed in the over-bright glow of the outer offices was a man who looked barely beyond adolescence.

"Assuming that you mean the noun and not the verb," the invader clarified hastily. "In which case – compel? Also, the sixth amendment states that - In all criminal prosecutions, the accused shall enjoy the right to a speedy and public trial, by an impartial jury of the State and district wherein the crime shall have been committed, which district shall have been previously ascertained by law, and to be informed of the nature and cause of the accusation; to be confronted with the witnesses against him; to have compulsory process for obtaining witnesses in his favor, and to have the Assistance of Counsel for his defence." The boy-man had not taken a breath during the recitation.

Toby blinked at him, and turned back towards the door. "Ginger?" Toby called again. "Where did you buy me the talking dictionary?"

The twenty-something year old grinned. "The dictionary doesn't have the Bill of Rights in it. Although it really should."

"Sorry, a talking constitution" Toby amended sarcastically. " Please, for your own safety, don't tell me that the constitution doesn't define words. Or that it should."

"I'm a lawyer, I need to know the sixth amendment," he said.

"Legal's down there." Toby waved his hand dismissively, and looked back at the page, yelling again, "Ginger? Cancel requests one and three!"

She poked her head through the doorway. "Figures and coffee?"

"Yes, because when I said one and three, clearly I meant two and four. Bring me the coffee _first_, then the California numbers."

"California? Those ones I know. You're up." the talking dictionary told him, evidently not dissuaded by Toby ignoring him. "Thirty-six percent."

"Now you're CNN too?"

"I'm a writer. And also Californian."

He looked Californian too. Swept back dark hair and the kind of healthy tan that made Toby's pallor even more pronounced. But that wasn't the relevant issue. "You're a what?"

"A writer." He looked unsure for the first time. "They sent me down here."

"You're…you're Josh's friend. Something beginning with S."

The slight scowl had been at 'Josh's friend' rather than 'beginning with S', and that was a little interesting.

But, "Yes," he conceded.

Toby glared at him. "Well firstly, vigor is in no way a better word. Secondly, I don't need another writer."

"Yeah, okay," the kid answered, leaning over his work, "vigor doesn't really fit, does it? How about strength? If you change that…" he pointed three paragraphs down.

Toby protested the change, and it was two hours and three pots of coffee later that he thought to ask again, "What's your name?"

He looked up, and then down in surprise at the seat someone seemed to have provided for him. Back up again with a smile, "Sam Seaborn. Nice to meet you."

"Toby Ziegler. Likewise. You can't use 'potency' in that sentence."

"Yeah, you're probably right."

"Of course I'm right!"

"Toby – always right," Sam responded with a smile undaunted, one that spoke of the knowledge of better things to come. "I'll try and remember that."

-

**Endings**

Toby was always right, and so Sam lost, big. And Toby, as he had promised, stood beside him when the rocks were thrown. But afterwards, when Sam was bruised and drunk and so very tired, Toby left. And Sam stayed.

-

**Beginnings again**

Sam looked up.

His assistant stood in the door, looking nervous. "Mr. Seaborn? There's a man to see you without an appointment. A Mr. Ziegler?"

"Toby?" Sam asked in disbelief. How former White House personnel kept getting into these offices was something of a mystery to him. At least Toby had the sense not to just walk into a meeting.

"Should I tell him you're unavailable?" she asked.

"Why?" Sam asked. She blinked dumbly at him. "You've seen him on the news," he realised, understanding her hesitation now.

She nodded.

Sam got up. "If anyone's looking for me, tell them I took an early lunch."

"Sir…"

"Toby's an old friend of mine. And the recipient of a Presidential Pardon even in the event that this job, of all jobs, somehow precluded me from meeting possible felons."

From the way Toby looked at him as he left the office, Sam suspected that Toby had heard that last. Sam smiled in apology, both for his unnecessary scorn towards his innocent assistant, and for the assistant's continued look of suspicion.

Toby sat facing him at the table outside. "We have ten years," he said.

"What?"

"Ten years to get you ready to be elected President."

"2016 isn't an election year,' he answered, not even bothering to get into the bigger question.

"You need to be ready to be elected _before_ the campaign," Toby said, as if it was something Sam should not have needed to ask. "Ready by 2016 for the two year campaign to 2018."

"Have you not been getting enough sleep?" Sam asked cautiously.

"I slept on the plane."

"On that note, did you fly here the minute the pardon was signed?"

"Well there was some time between the signing, dotting the Is and crossing the Ts, and then someone thinking to tell _me_ that I was free to leave DC again."

"Well there was an Inauguration to plan."

Toby shrugged and went on regardless. "Santos won't be reelected."

"Toby," Sam reprimanded. "I voted for him."

"So did I," he answered dismissively. "We're Democrats, who else were we going to vote for? He won't be reelected. But it doesn't matter in 2010 anyway, because he will _run_, and no Democrat runs against the sitting President. But if we assume that I'm right, and the other guys win, they'll get eight years."

"Toby," Sam repeated. Republican wins were things you simply didn't talk about.

"They will. We get twelve years, they get at least eight."

"What if we get sixteen?"

"We won't."

Sam shook his head. "Toby." He didn't know how to articulate that it was possible Santos was the right guy at the right time, even if he was unlikely to be one of the history-makers. That wouldn't stop him getting his full two terms. Bartlet got two after all, scandal-worthy as his administration was. Maybe the country was due a quiet eight years, and who was to say Santos wouldn't see it safe through that time?

"It doesn't matter!" Toby gestured across the table in emphasis. "You can't run until 2018, you won't have the pedigree, so that's when we plan for."

"So all of that was just…?"

"Ten years, Sam."

"I have a job. And a fiancée. All of these are things I've already told Josh."

"He wanted you to work for Santos."

"For the President of the United States."

"Are you still going to say the title like that when it's you?"

Sam took a deep breath. "Toby, I'd need to be in Congress…"

"You came close last time."

"… get a staff…"

"Not a problem."

"… a platform…"

Toby stared at him in disbelief. "Sam, I sat in meetings with you for four years. Don't try and tell me you don't have a platform. I would bet all of the money in my wallet that you've already written your Inaugural address."

"I know how much money you made, Toby," Sam replied pointedly.

"Education front and centre? Government as a force of good?" Toby retorted.

Sam ducked his head. Toby knew him too well. When he looked back up, Toby was watching him.

"We could do this in ten years," Toby said quietly, seriously. "Think about it."

Sam was thinking about it.

Because Toby did not ask him to be Josh to his Leo. Even more important than that – he did not ask him to be Bartlet to his continued Toby. Sam was no longer prepared to run behind Josh, but he wanted even less to be held up against Jed Bartlet. Both he and Toby got their one shot at Bartlet's real thing, and that was all either of them would ever get. But Toby thought he could be something else, something worth uprooting both their lives for, and that meant more than thinking he was the next Bartlet. It meant more coming from Toby, for whom politics had yielded little but six defeats, one sin of omission and one near-incarceration.

Perhaps Jed Bartlet had been swayed like this, by a moment of impetuosity from one who was supposed to be restrained. Leo McGarry had sat across a table like this and persuaded Jed Bartlet that he could change the world. Needing him to say yes for both their sakes. Possibly it was, after all, friendship that had driven Bartlet's acquiescence and nothing else. Or the desire to live up to the image of yourself seen reflected in someone else's eyes. And perhaps, nevertheless, there were worse actions to emulate.

Toby was always right. Sam grinned and started looking for a pen. There was a moment of stillness as he looked over to Toby to confirm that yes, they could do this. Toby placed a hand on his shoulder across the table. Sam could not help but grip Toby's in return. A silent accord. They sat across from each other, pens out, and this felt more right than he had known in years. First things first – letter of resignation. Then maybe Toby would help him with this Inaugural address.

* * *

**FIN:** Thoughts?  



End file.
